


the world we made

by m0ette



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Break Up, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m0ette/pseuds/m0ette
Summary: Johnny looks down at their joined hands. No matter how wrong it feels, letting go feels like the bigger evil.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	the world we made

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "너와 내가 만든 세상" art exhibition about hatred, ending, and hope [Ten attended](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIBPMZllssk/) recently.

_I hate you,_ Johnny thinks. 

He squeezes Ten's hand harder. Ten hisses in pain, but does not try to break free; his nails dig deep into Johnny's palm, just shy of breaking the skin.

His hand is so warm in Johnny's tight grip.

"I hate you," Johnny says. The emotion behind the words is stale - it sparked, and burned, and snuffed long ago, leaving just ash and bone where he was once human - and Johnny just wants Ten to know.

Ten knows, of course. It's mutual. "I hate you, too," he says. His palm, Johnny notices, is sweaty against his own.

It's hard, looking at Ten now. He still looks so much like the person Johnny used to love, like the person he spent most of his life - true, meaningful life - with. He still looks like the person who wore his ring with reverence, loathing the loud claim but happy to share it with Johnny nonetheless.

Ten's hands were so cold when Johnny slipped the ring on - they always were, for some reason. Johnny would often hold them, kiss them. He'd allow Ten to stick his icy fingers up his sleeves and keep them there against the rushed rise of goosebumps as Johnny kissed his warm mouth until all of him was equally as warm. Until, after a day’s separation, they could melt to one again.

They used to be in love. The dark metal of the ring on Ten's finger, frozen, warmed easily when Johnny held his hand. 

"What now?" He asks.

Ten shrugs. Johnny feels the nervous jerk of his shoulder against his own and shivers with secondhand anxiety chilling him through the worn wool of the same old sweater with its stretched over the years sleeves.

  
  


Somewhere to their right, a boarding gate closes. There's still over an hour until it opens again for Johnny's flight, and the silence sets in between them, heavy and cold; Johnny itches to fill it with words but doesn't know what to say.

It's Ten who speaks then. "One day," he says, and his voice rings louder in the now-empty lounge of the midnight airport, "I hope, one day, we can forgive each other for this."

A laugh bubbles up in Johnny’s lungs and drowns in rising bile. He feels Ten's eyes on him but can't bring himself to look him in the eye, suddenly afraid of what he might see.

Instead, he looks down at their joined hands. No matter how wrong it feels, letting go feels like the bigger evil. "We will," he says. The words get stuck in his throat, and he has to cough them out. "We are best friends."

It hurts a lot. 

It hurts because it's true.

It hurts because it hasn't felt like the truth in a while. 

  
  


As Ten watches the plane from the closed gate finally take off, Johnny watches him. The round chin, the thin lip, the perfect nose. Even the third fold of his right eyelid - just like the person Johnny used to love.

Johnny almost expects Ten to smile when he turns to face him. Ten doesn't. He just looks tired. 

It's been a long day. 

Truthfully, it's been a long year; with the tour concluding just a week into December, it's been ten months since they hit the road. Ten months ago, there was nothing but excitement and anticipation for what's to come. Working together, living together - spending every waking second together doing what they loved seemed like exactly the happily ever after they always dreamed of. 

_I hate you,_ Johnny thinks, looking at Ten. 

Ten holds his gaze, calm. It's mutual, after all.

For what they were, for what they were trying to become, they used to love each other. For all the things they aren't, for everything they will never be, they hate each other now.

  
  


When Ten reaches for a kiss, Johnny welcomes it. He closes his eyes and tries to commit it to memory, knowing it's their last. 

Ten tastes of bad airport coffee, and Johnny can't get enough of him. He pulls Ten closer, hand still firmly clasped in his grip, feeling the steady pulse grow restless under his touch, and closes his eyes, allowing the bitterness to take over. 

He breathes in, slowly, and feels Ten's breath fan over his cheek as they breathe out in unison. His eyes sting with unshed tears mourning the loss when they part.

It feels like the biggest mistake in Johnny's life. 

He brings Ten's hand to his lips, kisses his open palm. The touch of his fingertips is gentle over Johnny's cheek, and when it's gone, Johnny has to stop himself from following.

That's enough. He lets go.

  
  


The lounge fills with people, bit by bit. Even this late into the night, their animated chatter and smell of fresh snow brings in some of the Christmas spirit Johnny utterly lacks this year. 

Unreasonably, Johnny hopes Chicago can fix him when he's finally back. Chicago at large, or the people in it - people who aren’t Ten, preferably. Maybe he can meet some of his friends from high school he’d lost contact with years ago and has never felt the loss of until now. He hasn’t even been to Northbrook in the new decade yet, though when he thinks about it, he does miss them. Also his mom, dad. 

Johnny feels guilty for having to use them to fill the Ten-shaped hole in his life. He’ll have three hours or so to come up with a way to explain Ten's absence. 

"Tell your folks I said hi," he says. 

Ten stares at him, expression blank, and Johnny bites his tongue. 

Talking to Ten’s father will be the worst.

  
  


As dawn breaks over the sleet grey of the New-York skyline, Ten’s flight moves terminal. The announcement, usually computer-generated, sounds humanely tired, and Johnny yawns into his scarf, affected, awkward angle straining his jaw. 

Ten pats his bag for keys, wallet, phone, then fastens the side pocket with Johnny mindlessly tugging at the zipper for tension and hesitates - for a moment so short that Johnny misses it - before letting go.

He wipes his sweaty palm over the dark denim of his pants. 

“Guess it won’t be soon,” Johnny reads on his lips over the sound of the announcement repeating. 

“Looks like,” he says, nodding in affirmation. 

He watches Ten leave and, for once, not following him is not hard. It’s not easy, either, but it’s a start. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/mottoMoetai). Tell me I'm wrong for this.


End file.
